"What!" exclaimed Dr. Winthorne, interrupting him,—"dear child? little Lucette? How is the sweet where is she? Oh that I could see her again for an hour! for she was an angel. Do you remember, Edward, that you once had a little sister, and that when you were ill of fever she disappeared?"
"Was that Lucette?" exclaimed Edward. "Remember her, my dear sir? Oh, yes! But how can that be? her death killed my mother, I think. Lucette my sister!" And he gazed down upon the table with a bewildered mind and a chilly, painful feeling at the heart, such as he never had experienced in life before. "I cannot comprehend," he added. "Lucette my sister! My sister not dead!"
"No, no," said Dr. Winthorne. "Tell him all, my lord the prince. Lucette is not your sister: she merely passed as such. Your father and your mother took her in very early years to hide her from her Roman Catholic relations in France, out of love and friendship for this noble gentleman. Those relations were powerful here as well as in the neighboring country; and at length they discovered where she was, but Monsieur de Soubise came over and removed her, first to the town of Brixham, where she remained some years, and thence to France. I had some share in all this, too. But you are mistaken, my son, about your mother's death. She grieved to lose her little pet, and wept often and bitterly at her loss; but the origin of her illness was a terrible fire which consumed your father's house when you were very young. Then, exposure and injuries received before she could escape sowed the seeds of that sad malady which, in this land of ours, like Death's gardener, culls the sweetest and most beautiful flowers to decorate the grave."
"Then she is not my sister?" exclaimed Edward. "She is not dead! Thank God for that!"
It might be difficult for those who heard it to know which he thanked God for most; and the exclamation produced a slight smile upon the countenance of Dr. Winthorne.
"Methinks, prince," he said, "this young man must have met Lucette since. You dog, you told me nothing of that."
But the Prince de Soubise was very grave. "Let us not talk of that part of the subject to-night," he said. "I fear there are painful conclusions before us. But, Mr. Langdale, my friendship for your father and my deep gratitude to your saintly mother make me most anxious to see you reinstated in her fine property. Let us consult what can be done. I am here ready to swear I signed the deed as witness with my own hand."
"That will not be sufficient," said Dr. Winthorne, with somewhat of a smile on his countenance. "In this land we shall require the deed itself. But let us ride over to-morrow to Buckley and see our old friend Sykes, the hunch-backed attorney; for I cannot help thinking that he knows something more than he will tell me. For the last six months he has been keeping up the place at his own expense; for I dare say you have heard, Edward, that no one has known any thing of Sir Richard for more than twelve months. He draws no rents, sends over no orders. His lawyer here has written and sent to Turin, but no intelligence whatever can be procured; and many people think that he is dead."
"It is very strange," said the Prince de Soubise. "But I have no belief in the report of his death. Most likely he is wandering somewhere, and does not wish the place of his abode to be known. He was always very eccentric."
"Then you know him, my lord?" said Edward, who had not lately mingled in the conversation; for some words which had fallen from Soubise had saddened him.